“You two are my compass,” he would whisper, kissing my forehead and then rubbing my swollen belly. “And this little guy… he’s going to be the anchor.”

I wanted to believe him. I needed to. Emma, our eight-year-old daughter, was the sun around which my world orbited. She was a bright, perceptive child with eyes that seemed to see just a little too much. She had taken to talking to my belly as a daily ritual, her small hand pressing against the fabric of my maternity dress. “Come out soon,” she would murmur. “I’ve got your toys ready.”

Watching her, I savored the terrifying, beautiful weight of motherhood. But the shadows were lengthening.